


Blood on his hands

by Booker_DeShit



Series: Booker_DeShit's One-shots [25]
Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games), BioShock Infinite
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood, Crying, Insomnia, M/M, Men Crying, Nightmares, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Canon, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:22:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28615773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Booker_DeShit/pseuds/Booker_DeShit
Summary: Followup to this post by writing-prompt-s: You have the ability to literally see ‘blood on peoples’ hands’ if they’ve killed someone before. The amount of blood you see corresponds to how many people a person’s killed. Most people have clean hands, while a hitman or soldier may have a stained hand or drippy fingers. You’re moving in with a new roommate, who you’ve heard is a doll. You open the door and see them for the first time, to find that they are up to their elbows in blood.
Relationships: Booker DeWitt & Jack, Booker DeWitt/Jack
Series: Booker_DeShit's One-shots [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1434427
Kudos: 6





	Blood on his hands

Jack knew himself that his hands would be covered in blood. He was no innocent angel, not after it all. But this man, Jack could only shudder at what he had to have done.

Booker was the man's name, some middle-aged musician & widower, with a daughter who visited him often, yet never when Jack was around. He had auburnish brown hair, those striking green eyes Jack found quite mesmerising, a strong jawline & flat nose. And more scars than bare skin it seemed. He didn't speak often, was going slightly deaf, & never smiled, but his cooking was to die for, & he was more than helpful around the house. Doll indeed, he seemed like your typical older gentleman, maybe slightly more sober & stoic, but Jack couldn't blame him after loosing his wife.

Weeks. Weeks Jack lived with this man, & he never saw anything out of the ordinary. How could have this man killed so many? How could this perfectly innocent man have committed more atrocities than Jack himself? Jack, the one bred & reared to be a killing machine.

Until one night, Jack wakes up. It's 1 am, a few lazy clouds floating past the moon that streamed into his room. The world was silent, asleep as it should have been, except for the faint sobbing Jack heard outside of his door. Through a sleepy fog, Jack clambered out of bed, heading towards the sound of the crying. He thought maybe Booker's daughter had came over suddenly, or maybe the older man felt in the mood to watch some TV (Jack was no stranger to Booker's insomnia & strange sleeping habits.) What he found instead, well, it was a shock. And it broke his heart.

"Booker?" He asked, approaching the shaking form of his roommate, nestled tightly into a nearby corner.

"Jack? What, what are you doing here?" Booker asked through tears, his voice hitching as he tried desperately not to outright sob in front of Jack. He bit his lip, wiped away at his eyes, but Jack had already seen it.

"I heard you cry. Are you alright?" A brief shake of the head was his reply. Well, that was a start. Admitting wasn't easy. Jack reached his hand out, grasping Booker's arm when the other didn't shuffle away. Together, they moved over to the couch.

"I had a nightmare." The man confessed once they were seated. 

"Want to talk about it?"

"It was me. I was... I watched myself, two versions of myself, standing in a lake. One version of me grabbed the other by the neck, then pushed him under the water. Then my daughter walked up, & she drowned the other version of me. She looked at me then, & she said something about doorways, constants & variables. 'The blood of all versions of you are on your hands'." Jack watched him as he recounted the story. He wasnt sure how to think about it, until he saw the blood on Booker's hands climb higher.

"I guess seeing yourself kill... _Yourself,_ would be considered a nightmare." A humourless laugh fell from Booker's lips.

"I've had this same dream for years. No, I've seen myself kill so much it no longer bothers me."

"Is it about your daughter then?"

"That part is no different either," He shook his head, "No, there was another part. After my daughter spoke to me, she walked up to me, & I went under too. I went under & woke up in my old office. I used to be a private detective, ya know. & when I stepped out of my office, I saw New York in flames, Zeppelins raining down fire upon the land below. I... I haven't had that dream in so long, it was a shock to me. A reminder I didn't particularly want, you know." When the last words from his lips, Booker put his face in his hands.

"Do you know what those dreams mean?"

"I do." Jack left it at that, only holding his roommate when the other began to sob again. He was confused, he couldn't deny it. But asking questions wasn't the right thing to do in that moment. 'The blood of all versions of you are on your hands' seemed quite literal when Jack looked at it. Maybe this seemingly innocent man hadn't killed much in this life, but in many others he had, over & over, until all of his atrocities piled on him, the laws of the universe be damned.


End file.
